Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16)

by Barbara Cartland

  She smiled at him, and he thought how lovely she looked: her hair very dark against the brilliant bindings of the books; the movement of her hands even more graceful than he had remembered. “Good-morning, My Lord.”

  Then, like a child that has something exciting to relate, she added:

  “The Reverend Gentleman has found a book which he is sure will please you.”

  “What is it?” the Marquis enquired.

  “It is a book on Gypsies by one John Howland,” The Reverend replied, holding it out to the Marquis. “I had no idea it was in the Library, but actually it was only published two years ago in 1816. It relates all you wished to know about the origin of the Gypsies.”

  The Marquis took the book from him.

  “I suppose my father must have bought it.”

  “That is so, and because he died that same year it must have been overlooked,” The Reverend replied, “which was why I had not included it in the Catalogue.”

  The Marquis opened the book, turned the pages and remarked: “I see it has a comparative list of the Gypsy and Hindustani language. Some of the words seem very similar.”

  “That is true,” Saviya said. “For instance I would describe you in English as a very important man, or Prince. The word is Rajah in Hindustani and Raja in Romany.”

  “I shall have to study this,” the Marquis said, “but at the moment I am extremely hungry and also thirsty. Will you join me in a glass of wine, Reverend?”

  “I shall be delighted, My Lord.”

  “And I hope, Saviya,” the Marquis said, “that you will have luncheon with me.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then answered:

  “I would like that.”

  “It is no use my inviting you, Reverend, is it?” the Marquis asked.

  The elderly man shook his head.

  “You know with my poor digestion I can eat only once a day.”

  “I had not really forgotten,” the Marquis replied.

  They went into the Salon, and after The Reverend had accepted a small glass of Madeira, he returned to the Library.

  Saviya looked at the Marquis’s shining riding-boots and said: “You have been riding. I have admired the magnificent horses in your stables.”

  “I imagine that you ride?”

  She smiled and answered:

  “It is something I enjoy doing more than anything else except dancing.”

  “I hope to see you do both.”

  They went into luncheon and the Marquis wondered how she would eat. Surely, he thought, a Gypsy would not know either the etiquette or the proper behaviour expected at a Gentleman’s table.

  But it would have been impossible, he realised, for Saviya to do anything that was not graceful or elegant. He noticed, however, that she did not pick up a knife or fork until she could follow him.

  Yet it was cleverly done and anyone who had not been observing her closely would not have noticed that she was imitating not only his choice of cutlery but also the manner in which he used it.

  But after a time the Marquis forgot to watch Saviya for any faults she might commit. He was too much interested in what she was saying to think of anything else.

  He had little difficulty in persuading her to talk of her travels. The Marquis was an expert at drawing a woman out, obtaining her confidence and making her feel so secure and happy in his company that she could trust him with her innermost secrets.

  Usually he did not exert himself unduly in this way, but he knew without consciously thinking of it that he had the power at his command.

  Because he was quite certain that Saviya had never had luncheon alone with a man before, and certainly not in such agreeable circumstances, it was easy to make her talk.

  She told him of how the Gypsies trekked across Europe, moving from country to country, often having to flee from cruel persecutions by the Authorities, but usually welcomed by the ordinary people, because of their special crafts, sorcery and horse-dealing.

  “My father is a great authority on horse-flesh,” Saviya said, “and he has often been commissioned to buy animals in one country and send them to another.”

  “How big is your tribe?” the Marquis asked.

  “When we left Hungary for Russia, there were two hundred of us,” Saviya replied, “but usually we number but forty to fifty as we are here in England.”

  “Do you sleep in tents?”

  “We used to,” she answered, “but now we have something new.”

  “What is that?”

  “We have acquired caravans. There are not many in England yet, but in Europe a number of Gypsies have them. Caravans have always been used by the Circus people, but they are so attractive and comfortable that now all the Gypsies that can afford it wish to own one.”

  When luncheon was over the Marquis and Saviya went to the stables and he at once realised, as he might have expected, that she had a special way with horses.

  “What magic do you use on a restless or savage horse?” he asked, when she had entered the stable of a stallion of whom even the Marquis’s grooms were wary.

  “It is a secret which belongs only to the Gypsies,” Saviya answered, “and must certainly not be imparted to a Gorgio.”

  “Is that what I am?” the Marquis asked.

  “Anyone who is not a Gypsy is a Gorgio or Gadje,” she replied.

  “And what do you call yourselves?”

  “We are the Rom,” Saviya replied proudly.

  When they had finished inspecting the stables, the Marquis took Saviya round the old part of the House, showing her the Priests’ holes, where the Catholic Priests had hidden from Queen Elizabeth’s soldiers, who would have burned them at the stake.

  The hiding-places had been used later in the history of the Ruckleys, when Cromwell had defeated the Royalists and hung many of them on Tyburn Hill.

  As the Marquis showed Saviya round his home, he found himself recalling family stories and legends that he had known as a boy.

  He liked the concentrated attention she gave to everything he said: the light in her eyes; the way her lips curved differently from the mysterious mocking smile she had given him yesterday.

  Finally, they reached the end of the long Picture Gallery where he had shown her paintings of his ancestors, and the Marquis stood at the casement window looking out into the garden.

  There was a fountain just below them where a stone cupid held a huge fish in his hands. From its mouth a jet of water spouted high, which glittered iridescent in the sunshine.

  “You are very lucky,” Saviya said in a low voice.

  “Am I?” the Marquis asked.

  “You do not always think so,” she said, “but one day you will realise how important this House and everything it contains is to your happiness.”

  “I think I realise it now,” the Marquis said. “Are you telling my fortune, Saviya?”

  “No, not really,” she answered, “but at the same time there is something I do not like.”

  It seemed to the Marquis that her voice had changed.

  Now she turned her head to look at him and he had the strange feeling she was not actually seeing him but looking through and beyond him.

  “Yes, there is danger,” she said in a low tone. “You must be careful! You have an enemy. It is a man and he is trying to injure you.”

  “How do you know that?” the Marquis asked sharply. “Has Hobley been talking to you?”

  “I know it because he is there,” Saviya answered. “I can see him quite clearly. He is dark, he has a long nose, and his name has the same first letter as yours. You must be careful ... very careful where he is concerned!”

  “How do you know this?” the Marquis asked again.

  As he spoke, his voice almost harsh, Saviya shook her head as if she would dispel something that was hurting her and from which she would be free.

  Then she knelt on the window-seat and looked out into the garden.

  The Marquis did not speak for a moment and then he said: “
What you have told me is true, but I cannot understand how you can be aware of something which concerns only my private life.”

  “I told you I am a witch.”

  “I thought you were joking.”

  “Magic is not a joke to the Kalderash. It is a part of us and part of our destiny; we cannot escape it.”

  “What you have told me is true,” the Marquis repeated, “but you did not say if my enemy would be successful in what he is attempting to do to me.”

  There was a silence, and then Saviya, still not looking at him, said:

  “I have warned you of danger. That is enough. A man prepared is already armed.”

  “I hope you are right!”

  She turned her face suddenly.

  “Be careful! Please be very careful!” she pleaded.

  Her eyes met his and for a moment it seemed as if something passed between them and it was impossible for either of them to move.

  Almost without meaning to, the Marquis put out his arms towards Saviya.

  It was an instinctive gesture—something he had done so often in his life, when he had been attracted by a lovely woman, that he did not even consider what her reaction would be.

  He just followed his impulse.

  Then as his hands touched her, as he would have drawn her close against him—and had already bent his lips towards hers, she gave a little twist of her body.

  She was free of him, and he saw incredulously that she held in her hand a long, shining dagger—a stiletto such as the Italians carried.

  She held it firmly in her hand between her breasts, the sharp point directed at his chest.

  Slowly the Marquis dropped his arms.

  For a moment neither of them spoke, and then Saviya said:

  “You are a Gorgio. You must not touch me. It is forbidden.”

  “Why?”

  “No Rom can associate with a Gorgio. If she does she is exiled from the tribe.”

  “Do you really mean that?” the Marquis asked in genuine surprise. “Tell me about it, Saviya, and put away that dangerous weapon. I promise I will not touch you without your permission.”

  She looked at him searchingly, as if not sure whether she should trust him. Then so swiftly that he hardly saw it happen, the stiletto disappeared into her bodice and she sat down on the window seat.

  “I am very ignorant of your rules” the Marquis said, “so you must please forgive me if I offended you.”

  He spoke beguilingly and a very much more experienced woman than Saviya would have found it hard to resist him.

  “If you had been here with a ... lady of your own race,” she asked hesitatingly, “would you have ... kissed her?”

  “I have a feeling,” the Marquis said, “that she would have been very disappointed if I had not attempted to do so.”

  He smiled as he spoke, but Saviya’s face was serious.

  “If she had been unmarried, would you not have felt obliged to ask her to be your ... wife?”

  “If she were unmarried,” the Marquis answered, “it is most unlikely that we should be here together unchaperoned.”

  “And had she been married?”

  “Then in most cases the lady in question would have expected me to show my admiration for her charms.”

  “If she had been a Gypsy, her husband would have beaten her for such behaviour,” Saviya said sternly, “and in France her head would have been shaved.”

  “Shaved!” the Marquis ejaculated. “Is that really true?”

  “It is a common punishment among Gypsies,” Saviya answered, “and for many months a woman who has aroused her husband’s jealousy becomes an object of shame in the eyes of the tribe.”

  “Then Gypsy husbands beat their wives!” the Marquis said.

  “There are worse punishments if they behave improperly,” Saviya told him. “But it does not happen often. Gypsy marriages are very happy and they last forever!”

  “Even if they do not get on together?” the Marquis enquired.

  “We are a happy people,” Saviya answered. “Family life is sacred and anyone who offends against the sanctity of their marriage deserves the punishment they receive.”

  She spoke with some conviction, and the Marquis knew that what she was saying must be the truth. Nevertheless he was astonished.

  “Who will you marry, Saviya?” he asked.

  “I shall not know that until he approaches my father.”

  “You have no choice?”

  “In the Kalderash a marriage is always arranged between the fathers of the bride and bride-groom. A betrothed girl has no right either to visit or to talk to the man she will marry, even when other people are present.”

  “Surely that is very strange?” the Marquis said.

  “I think perhaps it is something we have inherited from our Indian ancestors,” Saviya replied. “Whatever the origin of the custom, a gold coin is placed on the girls neck and this marks her as Tomnimi—promised.”

  “What happens,” the Marquis enquired, “if a Gypsy man or woman falls in love with a Gorgio?”

  “In either case it brings exclusion and exile from the tribe,” Saviya said.

  “For life?” the Marquis enquired.

  “The woman or the man, is held in contempt, indeed hated, and no-one will speak to the offender. They are Poshrats, Didikais, they no longer exist.”

  “It is a very harsh code!”

  Then the Marquis asked:

  “Does not the idea of marrying someone you have never seen, whom you do not know and whom you may not even like, frighten you?”

  Saviya looked away, and he had the feeling that he had touched on some secret that she had kept hidden, perhaps even from herself.

  She did not reply and after a moment he said in his deep voice: “Tell me. I want to know, Saviya.”

  “Yes,” she said hesitatingly, “the idea does ... frighten me.”

  “Do you not think,” the Marquis asked, “that love is more important than anything else? Is there no place for love among the Gypsies?”

  “A woman should love her husband,” Saviya answered.

  “And if she finds it impossible?” the Marquis insisted. “If for instance she falls in love with another man before marriage, would that not seem to her more important than tribal laws and regulations?”

  “I do not know,” Saviya replied, “it has never happened to me.”

  “And yet you have thought about it,” the Marquis persisted. “Perhaps too, Saviya, you have dreamt of a man that you could love, a man who could capture your heart and make it his.”

  His voice was very deep and now, as she turned her eyes to look at him, he thought there was an expression in them like that of a very small and frightened animal.

  Then she said after a moment:

  “But the laws of the Kalderash are just and my people believe in them.”

  “But you—you are different,” the Marquis said. “You are a witch and so perhaps more sensitive and capable of deeper feelings than the others.”

  “Why do you say such things to me?”

  “Because you are so beautiful,” the Marquis replied. “Because you are not only unbelievably lovely, but because you have a brain. It is the intelligent people in this world who suffer the most, Saviya.”

  She did not answer, but he saw a little quiver run through her.

  “It is the difference between a race-horse and an animal that draws a cart,” he went on. “You know as well as I do that the one is far more highly strung, far more sensitive to pain than the other.”

  Saviya was silent and then she said:

  “It is best not to think of ... love.”

  “But you do think of it,” the Marquis replied. “And something that you cannot control yearns for it.”

  His words seemed to vibrate between them. Then, as he waited for her answer, there was the sound of footsteps at the far end of the Picture Gallery and a familiar voice cried:

  “Ah, here you are, Fabius! I was told you were go
ing round the House.”

  The Marquis turned his head to see Charles Collington advancing toward him.

  “I received your note,” the Captain said as he walked over the shining oak floor. “I felt there must be some very unusual reason for you to stay in the country, so I have ridden to the rescue, if that is the right word!”

  “I was merely informing you that I could not dine with you tonight,” the Marquis said.

  “Nevertheless I felt it was important for me to be with you,” Charles Collington replied.

  He reached the Marquis’s side to stand with a look of surprise on his face, staring at Saviya.

  “Let me introduce you,” the Marquis said. “Captain Charles Collington—Saviya, a very lovely Gypsy whom I ran over with my Phaeton.”

  “That was an original way of getting yourself introduced!” Charles Collington exclaimed.

  He put out his hand to Saviya and went on:

  “It is delightful to meet you, Miss Saviya.”

  She dropped him a small curtsy.

  “I must go now,” she said to the Marquis.

  “No, please do not leave us,” the Marquis begged. “This is my great friend, and I know when I tell him about you, he will not believe a word I say unless you assure him that I am speaking the truth.”

  “Did His Lordship say that you were a Gypsy?” Charles Collington asked Saviya with undisguised interest.

  “She is indeed!” the Marquis answered, “and she has opened my eyes to a whole new world I did not know existed.”

  “I have always been a great admirer of the Gypsies,” Charles Collington said. “When we were fighting in Portugal, the Ciganos, as they were called, were extremely useful. They could move between the two Armies without fear. They were neither friend nor foe, and in consequence they carried messages and spied for both sides!”

  “Now that I think about it, I believe you are right!” the Marquis said. “I never paid much attention to the Portuguese Gypsies myself.”

  “Gypsies do not wish you to pay them attention,” Saviya said with a smile. “What they would like most would be to be invisible. To come and go with no-one troubling about them.”

  “Well, I am very glad that you are not invisible!” Charles Collington said with a look of frank admiration in his eyes. “No wonder His Lordship is in no hurry to return to London. Having seen you, I find it a most compelling reason for preferring the country!”